


You Win Some

by aftereighteen



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftereighteen/pseuds/aftereighteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's depressed by America losing (at golf).  Ryan cheers him up.  Originally posted on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Win Some

The last thing Ryan needed having been at the pool for 7am and done a weights session straight afterward was to stumble into the house and trip over a golf bag.

He made it halfway up the stairs before realising that he didn’t know where his golf bag was – wouldn’t have done even if he hadn’t moved house recently – but that it definitely hadn’t been in the hallway when he left that morning.

Ryan turned and looked back at the bag strewn across the floor, frowning. Aware that Carter wasn’t the best guard dog in the world, he still couldn’t see how this could be the work of a burglar. Scratching his head, Ryan also realised that his dog hadn’t come to greet him, which meant that the lazy bastard was either in bed or had found someone else to scratch his ears.

Ryan backtracked, heading down the stairs and through to the den. Where he found Michael Phelps sprawled across his couch with his dog watching cartoons.

“Thanks for the obstacle, dude, but you should know already that I don’t need help breaking bones,” he smiled, leaning over the back of the couch to rub Carter’s head.

“I always hated Europe,” Michael said without looking away from the TV.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Oh, hey Doggy, good to see you after two weeks. How was training? Want me to massage your aching muscles and suck your neglected dick? Or can I fix you a sandwich maybe?” he teased.

That got Michael’s attention. “Huh?” he replied, finally twisting to look up at Ryan. It was impossible to be angry with someone who looked so good, ridiculous muscular limbs stretched out across the couch beneath the dog.

“Nevermind. So you’ve decided Europe takes the blame for the mixed medal bag from London?” Ryan asked.

“No, they kicked our ass at golf,” Michael pouted.

Ryan blinked, trying to absorb the fact that Michael Phelps was more upset that Europe had beaten the US at golf than several swimmers pissed on his party at the Olympics. Mike had a distinct whiff of depressed teenager about him and Ryan got the feeling that his dick was going to stay neglected for a while.

“I’ll fix the sandwiches then, shall I?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Mike just nodded, flipping channels to avoid the commercials.

Carter followed Ryan into the kitchen and trailed around after him whilst he sorted the food out until Ryan gave the dog his own. Ryan returned to the couch, lifted Mike’s feet to settle under them and started feeding his friend the sandwich he’d made. Michael continued to stare dumbly at the TV, chewing and swallowing as appropriate.

Once the food was housed, Ryan decided that Mike needed more mental stimulation than Nickelodeon was providing, so he dug out the controllers, tossing one to Mike. As he scrolled through to start up the game, Mike shifted beneath him and Ryan took his cue to sprawl out across the other man, head against Michael’s shoulder, back against his chest.

When he beat Mike fairly easily three times in a row, Ryan wondered whether it might be time to call a doctor. He’d contemplated letting Mike win, but he had a feeling that, even in his current state, Mike would see through that one. Plus Ryan hated losing. During their fourth game, Ryan was momentarily distracted by Carter shoving his ass down beside Ryan’s on the couch and Mike came back to earth, winning the game and punching the air. Ryan breathed a sigh of relief, gave Carter a brief pat on the head and concentrated on game number five.

Michael continued to beat Ryan for the rest of the afternoon, each win perking him up further. It wasn't until Carter let out a frightened whimper in reaction to his master’s stomach rumbling that Ryan realised he was hungry and dug his phone out of his pocket to dial for pizza. As he did so, he accidentally leaned on the remote and their game disappeared.

Mike was about to beat Ryan over the head with his controller when he saw that the TV was now showing a round up of sports news and, sure enough, the top story was the golf. Ryan swivelled whilst on the phone, simultaneously trying to order – and instead getting out, “half Tiger, half pepperoni” – change the channel and assess Mike’s mood.

Ryan paused, refocused on his phone call, finished the order and hung up. Then he turned the TV off. Then he straddled Mike’s hips, pressed their chests together and kissed him. Hard.

Ryan had to pull out all the stops – nuzzling Mike’s neck, biting his lip, rubbing the very tips of his fingers along the skin just above Mike’s waistband – to get even a hint of a response out of him. The younger man eventually gave him something, opening his lips to Ryan and eliciting a mental fist pump from the Floridian, which manifested itself physically in the form of a murmured, “yes, Mike, c’mon, fuckin’ finally.”

Ryan instantly took his cue, shifting his weight to grind his hips against Mike’s whilst he continued to explore the other man’s mouth with his tongue. Ryan lost himself in the languid kiss, enjoying being able to do what was long overdue – their hookup at the Details party had been no more than a hurried fuck against the bathroom wall, which was better than nothing, but had been nowhere near the release that Ryan had been craving. He’d been tempted to throttle Mike for flying in and out on the same day, convinced he was trying to sabotage his own sex life.

The whole situation was starting to feel a little like a first time, as Ryan found himself taking Mike’s hand and placing it on his own belt, encouraging Michael to take what was his and enjoy it. Mike didn't bite first time, failing to concentrate and just let his hand flop back between them instead. Ryan persisted, undoing his shorts and picking Mike’s hand up again, sliding it inside his underwear this time and making sure to moan loudly against Mike’s lips as fingers brushed against his skin.

Michael finally joined in – much to Ryan’s relief, as he was starting to feel a little like he was making out with a warm corpse – and stroked his fingertips down Ryan’s belly to capture his dick. Ryan’s hips fell into rhythm with Mike’s touch, urging his strokes on with a slow rocking motion.

Ryan pinned his left hand to the arm of the couch, next to Mike’s head, and allowed his right hand to roam free, steadily massaging up and down Mike’s torso, over his bicep, shoulder and forearm and back to rest on his hip. As he lost himself in the movement, feeling his slightly-aching limbs melt into one with Mike’s, Ryan found himself wondering why they didn’t just do this more often, rather than just leaping in to the main event.

He was just working up the motivation to withdraw his mouth from Mike’s to kick things up a gear and strip off when he feels Mike’s free hand slide into the back of his shorts and grip his ass. Ryan moans involuntarily, pushing into Mike’s touch and shuffling his hips to kick his clothes off.

Mike tugged at the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it on the floor. Ryan realised he hadn’t got a prayer of persuading Mike to exert the energy needed to get himself naked, but he’s happy for the other man to admire his own body whilst they get down to business. He does, however, need to get some of Mike’s clothes out of the way, and he settles for wriggling down Mike’s body, popping the fly on his jeans and mouthing him through his boxers as Michael’s hand cards through his hair.

After a minute of teasing, Ryan pulls back to peel the damp fabric away from Mike’s hips, grazing the familiar skin with his teeth as he makes his way down to take Mike’s dick in his mouth. Ryan’s hands map Mike’s body as he sucks slowly, one crawling over denim-clad thigh, the other sneaking under Mike’s t-shirt, rising and falling with the other man’s chest.

When Mike’s hips buck with a particularly forceful swallow, Ryan flicks his eyes open to meet Michael’s gaze, fixing his blue stare to Mike’s brown and smirking as the other man finally comes undone beneath him. A barely-coherent stream of curses and moans falls from Mike’s lips, topped off with a, “Yes, Doggy!” as Michael arches off the couch beneath Ryan, emptying himself in the older man’s throat.

Ryan pulls his mouth off Michael with a lewd pop, stroking the other man’s hip with a smile. His own dick was issuing a throbbing protest at being left out, which Ryan wasn’t going to be able to ignore for a whole lot longer. He sat back up on the couch, watching Mike come back down to earth.

Mike pulled himself up, tugged his jeans and boxers off and settled astride Ryan, working his lips against the older man’s neck. Ryan felt himself relax, slinging an arm around Mike’s shoulder as he felt and heard Michael murmur against his skin, “If that’s how you pick me up after my team lose...” – Mike punctuated the pause with a sucking motion on his collarbone that felt so good Ryan couldn’t bring himself to care that he wouldn’t look out of place amongst the teenagers at practice the next day – “...I might start hoping they do it more often.”

Ryan arched up against Mike, losing himself in the sensation of the body pressed against him and decided that perhaps he didn’t mind losing occasionally either.


End file.
